THIRTY
“You saw my husband behind the bar?” Angel asked.
“Yes,” Ben Weaver said.
“He has a big belly,” she said, “an ugly belly.”
“Yes.”
“And his pene,” she said, stroking Weaver’s penis, “it is small. He is not beautiful, smooth, and strong like you, my young gringo.”
She sat on the bed next to him, naked. She had heavy breasts and wide hips, but her hands and mouth on his body were so knowing that he didn’t care. She stroked him with one hand, fondled his testicles with the other. He was already tired out from her, but his penis became engorged at her touch, and when she leaned down and took it into her mouth again, any sign of fatigue in his body faded.
He knew that Clint wanted him to question her, but she had barely given him time to talk. When she walked into his room, it had taken her a second to get naked, and then she was on him voraciously. She undressed him, stroked his cock until it was hard, and then mounted and rode him until he exploded inside her.
Since then she had reawakened his tired body several times, and there had been no time to talk.
And this time was not going to be any different.
She got between his legs, sucking him wetly, avidly, and then she did something no other woman had ever done to Ben Weaver—no other whore anyway, since he’d been with mostly whores all his life. She took his hard cock between her pillowy breasts and rolled it there, rubbed it, kept at it until suddenly his body was jerking and spasming as he covered her breasts and chest with his sticky emission. . . .
An hour later Weaver woke to find Angel down between his legs again, sucking him awake. He wondered idly how Clint was going to react when he found out that Angel’s husband didn’t have to force her to have sex with other men. She was only too happy to do it.
“Okay, wait, wait, Angel,” he said, pulling her off him.
“But querido,” she said, “We are not finished . . .”
“I know we’re not,” he said. “Believe me, I don’t want us to be finished for a while.”
“Ah,” she said, “you do not think Angel is too old or too fat now?”
“I never said that,” he told her. “No, look, I need to ask you some questions before we, uh, get goin’ again.”
“Questions?”
“Yes.”
She sat up. The dark brown nipples of her heavy breasts were very hard as he tore his eyes away from them to look at her face.
“A few weeks ago four men came to town,” he said. “You spent the night with one of them.”
“Sí,” she said, “with Santee.”
“The Mexican one?”
“Sí,” she said. “He usually has me when he comes here.”
“You mean he comes here a lot?”
“Whenever he comes to Mexico,” she said.
“What is it he likes so much about this place?” Weaver asked. “Is it you?”
She ran her hand up his leg and said, “That would be very nice if it was me, but no, it is not me. It is Louisa.”
“Louisa? Another woman?”
“A girl,” she said, “but soon to be a woman.”
“And what is it about Louisa that brings Santee back here again and again?” he asked.
Her hand reached his crotch and she took hold of him.
“She is his hija.”
“Hija,” he repeated. “She’s his daughter?”
“Sí,” she said, leaning down to him. She ran her tongue along the length of him, then wet the spongy head of his prick by sucking it noisily. “Is that all we have to talk about?”
“Jesus,” he said, as she took him into her mouth, “there’s more, but it can wait until m-morning.”